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POEMS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 
AND  OLD  SPAIN 


POEMS 

OF   NEW   ENGLAND 

AND   OLD   SPAIN 


By 
FREDERICK  E.  PIERCE 


BOSTON 

The  Four  Seas  Company 
1918 


Copyright,  19 18,  by 

THE  FOUR   SEAS    COMPANY 


The     Four    Seas     Press 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  author  of  the  following  poems  was  raised 
on  a  small  New  England  farm,  which  he  worked  and 
managed  from  his  fifteenth  to  his  twenty-first  year. 
Then  he  went  to  college  and  ultimately  became  a 
member  of  a  university  faculty.  If  the  academic 
and  rural  points  of  view  occur  here  in  unusual 
juxtaposition,  the  writer  can  only  say  that  he  has 
given  life  as  he  has  found  it.  The  last  poem  draws 
its  framework  and  thought  from  historical  reading, 
but  its  emotional  coloring  from  the  psychology  of 
Puritanism  in  rural  New  England.  The  author  has 
not  tried  to  follow  the  rustic  vernacular  as  closely  as 
Mr.  Frost  because  in  all  the  present  writer's  New 
England  poetry  the  speakers  are  persons  widely  read, 
usually  of  university  training,  who  are  recalling  long 
past  experiences  on  farms.  In  real  life  such  people 
would  not  speak  in  all  respects  like  typical  farmers. 
Also  we  believe  that  the  following  of  the  vernacular, 
good  and  wholesome  as  it  is,  can  be  carried  too  far. 


4022C6 


Prefatory  Note 

The  aim  of  a  poem  is  to  reproduce,  not  a  phrase,  but 
a  mood,  the  reproduction  of  the  phraseology  being 
merely  a  means  to  an  end.  The  mood  created  by  a 
living  speaker  results  only  in  part  from  his  language. 
In  part  it  is  also  due  to  his  facial  expression,  tone  of 
voice,  and  other  factors ;  and  when  these  other  factors 
are  not  reproduced  something  may  be  required  in  the 
language  to  suggest  the  general  atmosphere. 

F.  E.  P. 


CONTENTS 


The  Story  of  a  Self-Made  Man 

Father  and  Son 

The  First  Hay- Stack 

The  Farm-Boy    .... 

The  Night  Before  The  Auto-da-fe 


Page 
II 

37 
41 

45 


POEMS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 
AND  OLD  SPAIN 


THE  STORY  OF  A  SELF-MADE  MAN 

I  stood  in  twilight  near  the  Self-made  Man 
Beside  De  Musset's  grave,  blueblooded  heir 
Of  all  he  voiced,  and  was,  and  threw  away. 
The  willow  tree  his  wish  had  planted  there 
Gave  half  inaudible  sighing;  and  below, 
That  face,  the  guttered  candle  passion  burned. 
Spoke  marred  and  haggard.     Aliens,  yet  a-kin, 
The  Self-made  Man  and  marble  image  met, 
One  family's  rising,  one's  descending  day, 
In  glory  of  twilight  both,  but  round  their  brows 
Ghosts  of  dead  hope  for  night  and  ashen  cloud. 

Atlantic  winds  from  far  horizons  turned 
Soft  keys  in  doors  of  thought;  new  ties  grew  ours, 
Of  common  country,  hopes  and  griefs;  and  there, 
While  shadows  deepened  round  those  foreign  graves, 
My  worn  companion  told  me  all  his  past. 

Where  the  green  ranges  of  the  Berkshire  Hills 
Roll  dwindling  through  the  southern  lowlands,  wild 


Poem?  pi;  New", England  and  Old  Spain 

In  still  and  lonely  loveliness,  he  grew, 
In  old  New  England's  poverty  and  pride. 
There  childhood  first  baptized  him  dreamer    from 
Wells  deep  in  woods  and  mossy,  where  his  valley, 
Hushed,  beautiful,  retired,  with  hinting  voices 
Of  brooks,  and  woods  intoning  through  the  winds. 
Bred  visions  natural  as  her  herbs  and  flowers. 
Four  fir-trees  lined  the  path  before  his  door. 
And  two  great  Norway  spruces,  gloomy  and  high. 
That  shed  like  needles  from  their  myriad  limbs 
The  stern,  sad,  mystic  musings  of  the  North 
Round  that  child  head.    Dark  on  the  western  hill 
Against  the  azure  one  great  pine-tree  loomed. 
Almost  across  the  sunset,  having  power. 
One  might  believe,  to  see  and  know  what  lands 
That  sun  arose  on  through  New  England's  night. 
Those  trees  were  teachers,  filling  infant  hours 
With  moods  deep,  solemn,  incommunicable, 
That  men  remember  sadly.     Then  the  spell 
Of  books  wrapped  heaven  and  earth  with  witchery. 
Alone  among  high,  thinly  peopled  hills. 
Through     leafy     orchards     framed     with     billowing 
meadow 

fi2l 


The  Story  of  a  Self-Made  Man 

Their  broad,  white-gabled  farmhouse  peeped.     There 

children 
Would  hail  like  sails  on  ocean's  rim  the  page 
Bringing  them  tales  of  far  off  towns  and  times, 
And  moods  and  music.    Though  his  boyish  mind 
Missed  half  their  thought,  truths  dimly  comprehended, 
Beauties  that  lingered  half  unveiled,  and  glimpses 
Of  wider  life,  the  arena  and  the  vision, 
Shook  all  his  heart ;  as  when,  one  drizzling  night, 
A  night  that  Coleridge  might  have  loved,  or  Poe, 
Each  nerve  enthralled,  he  read  their  writings  first. 
Raven  and  Rime,  dread  chamber,  haunted  sea. 
The  room  lay  still,  the  household  locked  in  sleep; 
The  great,  dark  spruces  moaned  in  night  and  rain; 
The  air  was  vital  round  with  mystic  life. 
Wild  melody  and  crowding  form ;  and  thoughts 
More  strange  than  albatross  or  raven  nested 
On  picture-frame  and  mirror. — Pure  first  love, 
The  treasured  volume,  virgin  bride  of  youth, 
Unspoiled  delight,  that  time  renews  for  none. 

So  fourteen  years  went  by,  humble  but  happy. 

His  father's  death  came  then,  want,  brooding  fear. 

The  light  was  dark  which  their  small,  lonely  world 

[13] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Had  walked  beneath,  their  house's  pillar  fallen. 
Heavily  the  care  of  that  sad  home 
Crushed  those  young  shoulders.     Thrust  from  dream- 
land's grotto 
Suddenly,  roughly  into  day,  he  stood, 
Blinking  in  that  un comprehended  glare 
Of  sordid  pains  and  plodding  scrutiny; 
Drudging  alone  at  labor  never  learned; 
None  to  rely  on,  none  to  give  advice ; 
And  fear  and  poverty  behind  his  heel. 
Their  shadow  falling  still  before  his  feet. 

Stern,  lonely,  sad,  the  years  that  followed  now. 
Not  lonelier  Selkirk's  island  proved  than  often 
That  farm  he  tilled,  where  times  in  very  truth 
God  seemed  not  there  to  be.    Day  after  day. 
While  growing  skill  and  hardening  body  woke 
The  somber  pride  New  England  hardships  breed. 
He  hewed  and  delved.     Hour  after  hour  the  wind 
Bent  the  same  weed  in  the  same  curve;  the  crow 
Hour  after  hour  in  jangling  monotone 
Called  from  the  wood.     Or  if  some  neighbor  came, 
His  only  neighbor,  only  one  who  came, 
A  white-haired  pastor,  on  whose  virtues  fate 

[14] 


The  Story  of  a  Self-Made  Man 

In  irony  laid  the  woes  of  broken  powers, 

The  boy  grew  lonelier.    Love  had  braced,  he  knew, 

Those  feeble  limbs ;  and  yet  that  darkened  mind, 

Forcing  his  growing  thoughts  to  look  on  life 

Through  its  own  misery  and  distorted  glass, 

Made  solitude  relief,  when  once  again 

The  fallow  brain  in  dead  negation  sank, 

To  tune  of  creaking  yoke  and  ring,  or  spell 

Of  plodding  hoof  and  endlessly  turning  sod. 

Yet  glad  vacations  met  him  also,  days 

Of  lightening  labor,  lessening  care  and  fear. 

Then  through  the  beauty  of  that  lovely  valley, 

A  Clive  through  India's  treasure-house,  he  trod. 

Where  golden- rods  like  scepters  of  old  kings 

Waved  thick  around,  or  woods  in  autumn  wore 

More  wealth  than  crowned  Mogul.     Much  else  was 

there : 
Pink  cones  of  hard-hack  nodding  in  the  breeze 
On  lonely  acres,  red,  autumnal  ivies 
Dabbling  like  blood  the  cedar's  dusky  bosom ; 
Old  dooryard  trees,  portly  and  neighborly. 
And  softly  garrulous  in  summer's  wind; 
Or  shaggy  knolls  of  pasture,  warm  with  sun, 

[15] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Where  the  shy  strawberries  blushing  wait  their  lovers. 
All  these  became  his  friends ;  and  often  in  them, 
Like    thoughts    round    reptile    foot-prints    found    in 

stone,* 
He  wove  the  intangible,  heard  spirit  voices 
Inaudible  yet  clear  as  fairy  horns. 
Grave  elders  of  the  night  expounded  God 
From  star-illumined,  lettered  rolls  of  heaven; 
And  veiled,  unshapen,  golden-tressed  hopes, 
That  lay  on  far  horizons,  chin  on  hand. 
Looking  through  distance,   framed  his  valley.     And 

often 
The  friend  of  other  days,  no  longer  changed. 
Came  like  Alcestis  back  through  reason's  world, 
Kindly  and  learned.    Then  round  their  talk  for  hours 
Ghosts  of  old  saurian  monsters  walked  the  hill 
Now  heaped  above  their  bones,  or  tragic  verse 
Kept  time  a-field  to  hoes  on  clinking  stones ; 
Philosophy's  long  hunt  went  questing  by, 
And  history  called  from  many  a  kindred  past. 

So,  wrapped  in  cloud  but  golden-tinged,  went  by 
The  molding  years  whose  labors  none  undo 


*The   foot-prints   of  prehistoric    birds    or   reptiles    in    the    red 
sandstone  of  Connecticut. 


i6] 


The  Story  of  a  Self-Made  Man 

For  good  or  ill,  the  hardening,  deadening  years, 

That  yet  had  taught  delight  in  labor,  joy 

In  planning  and  doing  and  helping  God  create. 

And  though  his  life  was  always  lonely,  lonely, 

Though  charm  and  knowledge  of  the  changing  world, 

The  sweet  free-masonry  of  our  healthy  youth, 

Dried  up  within  him,  while  he  felt  it  die, 

Yet  often  on  the  silent  hills  he  met 

What  David,  Paul,  and  white-haired  Oisin  found 

In  deserts  only ;  drew  more  near  to  Him 

Who  is  "alone  from  all  eternity"; 

Heard  seldom  the  sweet  rhythm  of  speech,  but  heard 

The  rhythm  of  rivers,  winds,  and  soughing  trees. 

Till  thought  and  word  grew  timed  to  rhythm  of  theirs; 

And  dreamed  high   dreams,   and   vowed   with  lifted 

hand. 
This  clumsy  plowboy,  clumsy  even  in  plowing, 
To  make  his  life  a  proof  that  drudging  poor 
Can  walk  with  Milton's  mood  and  Raphael's  vision ; 
And  so  lived  on,  and  grew  from  boy  to  man. 

Then  patient  plans  brought  liberty  at  last. 
Wide  earth  before  him,  vistas,  calling  voices, 

[17] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Thronged  avenue,  foamy  sea,  and  moon-lit  trail; 
And  eager  though  poor,  a  glad  free-lance, — he  came. 

Through  changing  homes  and  changing  work  he  wan- 
dered ; 
In  wintry  shacks  with  mountain  hunters  heard 
Weird  elves  in  winds  and  gnomes  that  mine  the  snow. 
Where  huge  sky-scrapers  heave  a  hill  of  stone 
Above  some  harbor  dark  with  mast  and  funnel 
He    drudged,    competed,    dreamed.      Or    westward 

where, 
A  crashing  tower,  the  great  sequoia  fell, 
Dashing  to  ground  the  limbs  that  stars  had  taught 
In  days  of  Charlemagne,  the  traveler  turned; 
Or  dared  Canadian  snows;  or  heard  by  night 
The  Texan  cowboy  lull  his  drove  with  song. 

Before  him,  unattained,  a  dim  mirage, 

Through    hopes    deferred    and    years    of    drudgery, 

moved 
The  cloud-Jerusalem  of  poetic  thought; 
And  somewhere  between  that  and  life's  rough  clay 
He  heard  a  voice  forever  praising,  chanting 
The  firm  reality,  to  build  and  plan, 

[i8] 


The  Story  of  a  Self-Made  Man 

And  feed  ourselves,  and  justify  our  being, 
Man's  dream  in  harmony  vvitli  the  dream  divine. 

Then  faUing  on  his  Hfe  a  gentle  hand 

Tuned  jangling  keys  to  music.    Woman's  love, 

And  all  around  that  name  as  aureole  thrown, 

For  him  had  haloed  too  some  sweet  girl  face 

In  far  off  boyhood  once.     But  poverty, 

With  iron  grip  that  seemed  unending,  drove — 

As  part  of  nursery  hope  and  elfin  tale — 

The  dream  from  youth  and  manhood;  taught  too  well 

What  lonely  labor,  death  of  love  and  charm, 

A\'ait  wedded  lives  where  want  is  bridal  guest. 

And  the  grave,  nunlike  fields  and  hermit  hills 

Had  grown  his  only  mates  and  formed  his  moods. 

So  died  for  years  the  lyric  hours  of  youth, 
The  lilting  loves,  the  hope  on  wing  to  fly. 
Yet  woke  reviving  now  when  blond-haired  dawn 
Called  life  to  sunnier  hopes  in  laughing  May, 
Or  April  hours,  when  bud  and  leaf  unfolding 
Hung  delicate  as  the  silken  dress  of  brides. 

Now  love  itself  rose  out  of  dreams  of  love, 
As  rose  its  mother  from  her  kindred  sea, 

[19] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

The  love  of  life's  late  manhood,  gravely  sweet 

As  autumn  asters  bred  when  winds  are  chill. 

As  through  a  sultry  valley  from  the  sea 

Cool  winds  may  breathe,  and  blowing  steadily, 

Change    nothing    yet    change    all,    while    hot-browed 

plowmen 
Feel  peace  in  hearts  that  ached  with  longing,  so 
That  gentle  presence  when  unheeded  most 
Had  influence ;  and  when  labor's  hours  were  done, 
He  felt  it  bringing  with  caressing  touch 
Meaning  and  magic  into  barren  days. 

And  now  he  thought  the  golden  time  began. 
A  while  to  breathe  and  grow,  shake  from  his  brain 
The  numbing  weight  and  burrowing  hand  of  care. 
Learn,  think,  and  have  his  chance  in  life, — and  then — 

"Then" — Others'  folly  came,  and  failure  came. 
The  cry  of  families  whom  his  ruin  ruined. 
He  rose  to  meet  that  long  expected  day 
Bowed,  penniless,  deep  in  moral  debt,  once  more. 
As  when  a  boy,  his  duty's  plodding  slave. 

Alone  at  night  he  fought  the  question  out. 
Smelt  the  damp  vine  and  eyed  the  burning  stars, 

[20] 


The  Story  of  a  Self-Made  Man 

And  cried  to  God:  "All  others  live  their  life; 

And  I,  who  all  through  golden  boyhood  made 

My  life  a  living  lie  for  others'  needs, 

Have  I  no  rights,  whose  humble  prayer  is  only 

One  fair  day's  work  a  day,  a  little  leisure 

To  give  to  beauty  what  others  will  to  sin?'* 

Against  the  dark  the  answering  vision  rose, 

That  reason  framed  and  conscience  colored,  showing 

The  widow's  home,  the  boy  so  like  himself. 

Hoping  great  hopes  that  withered  like  his  own 

Because  of  him.    To  feed  the  sense  of  beauty. 

Art,  poetry,  learning,  social  charm,  and  friends, 

By  filching  every  one  of  these  for  life 

From  that  pale  boy, — was  that  to  dream  his  dream? 

A  sleek,  carnivorous  tiger  soul?     Night  waned; 

The  morning  kindled  like  a  great  resolve 

On  hills  that  fronted  God;  and  twelve  long,  hard. 

Soul-withering  years  went  by, — and  all  was  paid. 

Once  more  the  summer  warmed  the  drowsing  fields 
Around  his  childhood's  home,  where,  worn  and  jaded. 
He  found  a  haven  of  calm.    The  grass  was  green 
On  paths  that  suffering  feet  had  trampled  bare; 
But  room  and  heirloom  still  were  eloquent 

[21] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Of  bygone  hours  and  friends;  yet  beautiful 

The  boy's  loved  valley  smiled  to  greet  the  man. 

Here  all  that  once  breathed  want  and  labor  now 

Was  redolent  of  rest,  of  cares  laid  by : 

Green  slopes  that  drowsed  beneath  an  apple-tree, 

Their  laps  piled  deep  with  ripe,  forgotten  fruit; 

Old  fallen  trunks  like  Barbarossa,  dreaming 

Through  time  and  mantled  with  their  beard  of  briers 

And  meadows,  pillowed  in  whose  downy  depths 

The  genius  of  the  valley  seemed  asleep. 

Here  many  a  mood  relived  that  childhood's  hour 

Saw  bud  and  die.    One  castellated  height, 

Its  rocky  ramparts  fringed  with  evergreen, 

Rose  near,  from  which  in  beauty's  perfect  curve 

The  far  horizon  fell.    A  myriad  hues. 

Faint,  vague,  but  wondrous  as  the  stormy  bow. 

Played  shifting  round  it;  rosy- tinted  clouds 

Laughed  from  beyond  it;  call  of  echoes  came, 

And  voices  of  old  thoughts,  that  all  day  long 

Mused  in  some  haunted  gorge  among  the  hills. 

Once,  lounging  all  alone  in  Sabbath  calm 

In  a  brown  stubble-field  where  memory  raised 

A  ghost  of  bygone  boyhood  plowing,  plowing, 

[22] 


The  Story  of  a  Self-Made  Man 

He  thought  of  that  untried  enthusiast's  vow 
To  make  his  Hfe  a  proof  that  drudging  poor 
Can  walk  with  Milton's  mood  and  Raphael's  vision; 
And  felt  the  wings  of  utterance  clipped,  but  still 
The  mood,  the  hope,  the  glory  and  vision  there. 

And  now  the  man  those  molding  forces  formed, 
To  make  or  mar,  in  darkening  Pere  Lachaise 
Gazed  on  De  Musset,  he  whom  others  fed, 
Wliose  days  were   waste,   whose  verse   the   rainbow 

gleam 
On  passion's  cataract  foaming  down  to  ruin. 
Cold  starlight  bathed  the  glimmering  image.     Hard, 
Touched  with  grim  humor,  curled  the  lip  that  weighed 
How  much  in  tears  the  dead  had  cost  the  dead ; 
And  grimly  sad,  in  pride  of  art  and  race. 
The  bearded  marble  mouth  returned  the  scorn. 
But  moon  and  mist,  in  dim,  millennial  haze 
Enwrapping  both,  made  either  seem  to  smile; 
And  I,  who  reverenced  both  and  fathomed  both. 
Behind  the  contrast  found  the  kinship  too. 
The  bearded  marble  mouth  seemed  saying  still, 
"Great  man,  perhaps;  but  poet,  no"*;  and  yet 


*  Grand  homme,  si  Ton  veut;  mais  poSte,  non  pas. 

— De  Musset's  "Apr^s  une  lecture. 


[23] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

From  wiser  worlds  De  Musset's  ghost  went  on: 
"Life,  that  made  me  great  author,  blasted  man. 
Made  you  more  man  than  genius.    Welcome,  brother, 
'One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book/ 
Both  warring  better  than  men  knew  have  found 
The  foe  too  mighty,  saved  but  what  we  could. 
Yet  over  us  time's  upward  march  goes  on." 

Atlantic  winds  from  far  horizons  turned 
Soft  keys  in  doors  of  thought ;  and  Bethlehem  stars, 
That  westward  lured  the  wayworn  world  so  long, 
Above  our  own  loved,  darkened  continent 
Bent,  lamp  in  hand,  to  see  what  face  was  hers. 
If  that  to  come  or  should  they  look  for  another. 
Old  ghosts  of  art  around  the  marble  moved. 
Around  the  Self-made  Man  dim  phantoms  filed. 
Resembling  yet  transcending  him,  dream  forms 
Of  genius  now  unborn  that  yet  might  be. 
Should  the  dumb,  vast,  misled  but  kindly  force 
Of  our  untutored  race  find  voice  at  last. 
And  Night,  who  holds  the  future's  mystery,  drew 
Her  curtain  close  round  famous  dead  in  France. 


[24] 


FATHER  AND  SON 

Hark,  the  great  eight-day  clock  begins  on  twelve, 
The  hour  when  ghost  and  memory  wake,  the  hour 
When  all  our  modern  realism  fails 
To  tear  the  magic  robe  from  life  we  know 
As  twenty  years  I  knew  these  hills  and  fields. 
For  me  this  old,  dark,  tumbling  farmhouse,  friends, 
Has  phantom  tenants  raised  by  midnight's  call, 
That  smile  a  welcome.    First  one  unfamiliar, 
Whose  past  I  learned  when  all  was  past  for  him, 
Who  year  on  year,  denied  the  life  he  loved, 
Sowed,  plowed,  and  harrowed,  broke  against  his  fate 
With  brooding  wrath,  and  died  in  middle  age, 
Goes  by  and  fades,  fading  before  I  learn 
If  that  dim  other  world  has  given  him  more 
Than  bare  New  England.     Then  his  buried  son, 
The  man  I  loved  for  years,  comes  pipe  in  hand, 
The  genial  crow's-feet  round  his  eyes,  and  on  him 
Dust  of  the  furrow  not  the  grave,  and  smiles. 


25] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

He  was  a  calmer  soul;  his  father's  mood 
Smoldered  perhaps,  but  never  blazed  in  him. 
He  fought  through  all  our  Civil  War,  and  lay 
Wounded  two  days  among  Antietam's  dead; 
But  came  back  home  to  manger,  scythe,  and  plow. 
Worked  peacefully  and  married  and  grew  old. 

That  lilac-scented  lane  was  where  he  wooed 
His  wife  in  girlhood;  there  through  moonlit  elms 
The  church  that  made  them  one  spires  like  a  prayer. 
They  asked  no  trip  in  foreign  lands  to  crown 
Their  bridal ;  through  the  hills  they  drove  together ; 
And  two  glad  weeks  beneath  a  roof  that's  gone 
Lived  on  the  crest  of  that  far  range,  whose  dome 
Glows  ghostly  now  beneath  the  climbing  moon. 
The  time  was  June;  and  all  the  fields  that  year 
Were  daisies,  daisies,  blanched  like  wedding  veils. 
On  their  white  carpet  trod  his  bride.     Around  them 
For  miles  on  miles  the  laughing  meadows  crowding 
Waved  snowy  kerchiefs  as  they  passed.     And  then 
They  looked  abroad  from  their  high  chamber,  knowing 
The  wonder  of  earth,  the  joy  their  bosoms  found. 

They  built  these  walls  for  married  years  together. 
Some  part  of  her  that  grew  undying,  clinging 

[26] 


Father  and  Son 

Around  the  home  she  made,  with  thoughts  of  her 
Haunts  twig  and  withered  leaf  of  all  her  vines 
When  winter  snows  blow  through  them.     She  relives 
In  every  tree  whose  growth  they  watched  together, 
Or  flowering  almonds  round  their  porch,  that  nodded 
His  welcome  home  at  night  so  many  a  May. 
Here  Fall  by  Fall  they  saw  the  maple  flame 
And  heap  their  turf  with  gold ;  here  Spring  by  Spring 
The  myriad-branched  magnolia  bloomed  for  her 
God's  candelabra  tipped  with  spirit  fire. 

Ten  hours  a  day  for  years  he  worked  a-field. 
But  still  life's  wealth  and  mystic  glory,  hunted 
Through  polar  floe  or  sw^eltering  India  vainly. 
Walked  here  uncalled  along  his   furrow.     Voices 
Went  down  the  branches  of  the  windy  woods; 
Life's  rich  aroma  poured  from  breeze-blown  buds. 
He  mowed  his  meadows,  where,  like  beauty's  volume. 
Turned  leaf  on  pictured  leaf  for  kindling  eyes. 
Pink  plume  and  green,  lily  and  queen-o'-the-meadow, 
A  million  grasses  of  a  hundred  kinds. 
And  each  a  world,  above  the  chattering  knives 
Kept  bowing,  bowing.    Tired  in  sweaty  heat 
He  ate  beneath  some  ancient  elm  whose  limbs 

[27] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Had  shielded  sachems  in  the  Indian  wars, 
And  murmured  out  of  immemorial  years 
Dead  rapture,  hope,  and  sorrow.     Turf  untorn 
Since  man  was  born  his  couUer  tore,  and  heaved 
From  the  dark  rest  of  centuries  into  day 
Life-giving  mold,  at  times  quaint  fossil  shells 
More  old  than  man;  or  down  the  furrow  slipped 
Flint  arrowheads  of  buried  Indian  braves. 
And,  always  changing,  through  the  boundless  heaven 
The  great  sun  climbed,  the  muttering  tempest  rolled. 
The  swallow  skimmed  the  grass,  and  fragrant  winds 
Brought  airy  syllables  from  beyond  the  hills. 

Then  sorrow  came;  above  the  face  he  loved. 
Locking  him  out,  the  doors  of  death  clanged  to. 
Haggard  that  day  he  walked  familiar  fields; 
And  where  all  once  gave  warm  companionship 
Of  calling  bird  and  breathing  vine,  all  now 
Was  lonely,  lonely  past  the  speech  of  man. 
Lonely  above  him  curved  the  vacant  sky 
Where  God  had  seemed  enthroned ;  earthy  and  dead 
Lay  the  dull  landscape,  where  the  hollow  wind, 
A  dying  emanation  from  dead  worlds. 
Went  wandering  vaguely  into  nothingness. 

[28] 


Father  and  Son 

Yet  that  dread,  lonely  farmer's  life,  where  hearts, 
More  tired  than  words  can  tell,  keep  vainly  heaving 
The  thought  that  still  rolls  back  through  empty  days. 
Has  its  own  healing.     Stars  from  wide  mid-heaven 
Beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  loss  and  law 
Looked    down    and    signaled    comfort.      Grave    and 

meadow 
Were  clothed  with  life,  green  blade  and  running  vine, 
A  breathing  universe  of  life,  where  death 
Seemed  dead,  forgotten,  buried  under  flowers. 

And  so  that  man  became  the  one  I  knew. 

One  commonplace  yet  noble.     He  had  built. 

Like  Dido,  and  beheld  his  walls.     Alone, 

In  that  calm  life  where  none  compete  or  cringe. 

He  dreamed  his  dream  till  it  took  flesh  and  form 

And  dwelt  with  men ;  his  dream,  those  fertile  fields 

Reared  up  by  him  from  swamp  and  underbrush, 

Feeding  the  world  and  beautiful  to  see. 

Part  of  himself  he  sowed  there;  part  of  him 

Relives  when  every  year  his  orchards  bloom. 

An  only  son  remained  from  married  days, 
A  helpless  comfort  first  and  helper  soon; 
Then  full  of  promise,  yet  a  growing  care. 

[29] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

For  hours  at  times  the  older  man  would  sit. 
And  shake  his  head,  and  think  in  that  young  face 
He  found  a  look  he  knew  but  never  wore. 
And  more  and  more  as  manhood  neared,  the  boy, 
Grown  sad  and  restless,  leaned  on  bar  or  plow. 
With  idle  hand  and  heart  too  tense  for  toil. 
Stood  gazing  past  the  landscape's  burning  rim. 
Captive,  while  fleets  of  flaming  clouds  went  bearing 
Columbus  visions  through  the  untraveled  night. 

At  last  the  great  deciding  moment  came. 
On  yonder  hill  by  that  great  oak,  whose  roots 
Grip  like  the  talons  of  the  fabled  roc 
The  turf  deep,  green,  and  centuries  old,  they  sat, 
Father  and  son.     Above  the  old  man  leaned 
The  patriarch  tree,  mossed  thick  with  memories 
Of  that  one  spot;  cool  through  the  young  man's  hair 
An  ocean  wind  blew  on,  that  restlessly 
Sought  for  new  lands.     Before  them  yawned  the  valley. 
With  field  of  shimmering  grain  and  plunging  stream, 
Slow  moving  plow  and  foliage-curtained  home. 
Their  words  to  me  down  hushed  and  airy  heights 
Blew    with    the   billowing    wind,    which    mixed    and 
mingled 

[30] 


Father  and  Son 

Old  bygone  longings,  moods  of  high  and  low, 
That  gave,  perhaps,  my  language  statelier  ring 
Than  theirs;  but  well  my  spirit  heard  their  souls. 
And  through  them  many  an  ancient  anchorite 
Or  knight  that  buckled  spur,  myself  as  well. 
For  I,  like  one,  long  since  had  loved  my  fields, 
Yet  like  the  other  beaten  against  the  pane 
For  landscape  vast  and  ruddier  life  beyond. 

The  boy  kept  urging:  ''Father,  let  me  go. 
For  years  Fve  helped  you;  now  Fm  man  at  last. 
My  future  calls  me;  earth  and  ocean  call  me, 
Vast  mines  in  mountains  half  a  world  away. 
Great  ships  with  foreign  funnels  dropping  down 
In  the  still  twilight,  bound  for  twilight  lands." 
Over  and  over  the  father  answered  sadly 
That  choice  was  free  but  happiness  was  here ; 
Then  spoke  of  all  that  life  had  meant  for  him 
In  that  one  valley,  peace  past  understanding, 
Calm  days,  and  love  of  one  now  buried  there. 

A  silence  followed.     Both  their  eyes  together 
Sought    the    low    ridge    where,    dark    with    hemlock 
fringes, 

[31] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

And  flecked  with  marbles  white  against  the  green, 

The  churchyard  lay.    Far  off  a  farmer's  call 

Rose  dreamily,  then  a  heifer's  lazy  low. 

But  clear  and  mellow  through  the  miles  of  air 

Whistled  a  distant  train ;  and  yet  again, 

Farther  and  farther  through  the  echoing  hills, 

And  always  hurrying  into  lands  unknown, 

The   sound   rose   dwindling.     Answering   that   dying 

summons 
The  boy's  deep  longing  surged  in  words  again. 

"It  makes  my  brain  whirl  round  like  fever,  father. 
Like  urging  friends  the  blue  hills  bend  and  beckon ; 
And  farther,  vaster,  through  a  waiting  world 
Loom  lives,  achievements,  thoughts  I  never  shared. 
By  night  and  day  I  hear  their  voices  calling, 
Calling  across  the  misty  morning  pastures 
Through  gaps  in  ranges  looking  seaward,  calling 
When  birds  fly  by  to  Alabama,  calling 
When  stars  from  Asia  glance  at  us  and  go. 
There  men  find  rapture,  find  what  lives  allow; 
There  new  inventions  rock  the  world;  and  there 
Great  armies  march  to  wreck  old  tyrannies. 
While  here  I  watch  and  stagnate.     Let  me  go!" 

[32] 


Father  and  Son 

"Ah,"  said  the  old  man,  "just  as  echoes  leap 
From  cliff  to  cliff  and  skip  the  chasm  between. 
So  from  dead  ancestors  old  traits  return, 
And  leap  the  generations.     Now  I  know  you. 
You  are  my  father's  child,  not  mine;  he  burned 
His  very  life  out  here  with  smoldering  longing. 
Yes,  you  shall  have  your  will.     And  now  your  arm. 
Come,  we'll  go  down  and  light  our  evening  fire. 
But  if  a  son  should  look  into  your  face 
With  eyes  like  mine  when  nothing  lives  of  me 
But  memories  of  an  odd,  obscure  old  man 
Who  wasted  years  among  our  lonely  farms. 
Think  what  in  life  I  found,  what  he  may  find 
Who  shares  through  you  my  nature; — and  be  wise." 

They  went  their  way;  and  left  alone  I  gazed 
From  that  high  summit,  ringed  with  range  on  range 
Of  fading  peaks,  now  down  the  lovely  valley. 
Then  out  in  distance,  where  on  sea  and  land 
Great  nations  whispered  through  the  gathering  night. 
The  western  glimmer  lit  when  day  had  died 
Like  Michael's  falchion  waved  between  that  world 
And  our  calm  stillness.     Ghosts  of  other  years 
Began  to  walk  like  winds  the  dewy  grass, 

[33] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

And  light  their  hearth-fires  in  the  twinkling  stars. 
Now  birds  of  night  awoke  with  ancient  trills 
Of  Asian  Eden,  singing,  "Home  is  heaven" ; 
Then  sang  a  bird  of  Southland,  "Earth  is  wide" ; 
And  each  alternate  raised  its  own  refrain; 
And  each  in  turn  heard  echo  answer  "Ay." 

The  boy  turned  soldier,  fought  in  wild  campaigns 
On  eastern  islands,  clove  with  fleets  of  steel 
The  broad,  blue,  glittering  waters  of  the  West. 
Daily,  like  tread  of  hunted  game  in  woods. 
Before  him  moved  adventure's  rustling  feet; 
The  unchanging  constellations  night  by  night 
Lit  changing  lands  and  darkly  shifting  seas. 

The  father  went  his  old  familiar  ways. 
He  heard  the  swallow  twittering  in  the  barn 
That  housed  his  boyhood.     Trim  in  ordered  rows 
His  orchards  blossomed,  beautiful  as  clouds. 
The  cataract  sang  at  night;  in  marshy  runs 
The  long  green  flags  flapped  lazily,  dreamily  still, 
As  if  man's  hurrying  hours  were  canceled  there. 
On  summer  nights  through  meadows  damp  and  dim 
The  twinkling  fireflies  moved  like  fallen  stars; 

[34] 


Father  and  Son 

The  whip-poor-will  shrilled  upon  some  mossy  rail; 
And    nighthawks     hunted    through    the     whispering 
heaven. 

Perhaps  the  man  was  lonely;  often  now 

On  worn  church  step  or  dusty  road  or  lane 

He  held  his  neighbors  talking  of  old  days, 

Or  news  about  his  boy;  but  tranquilly 

His  life  flowed  rippling  through  its  calm  green  world. 

Once  when  the  lad  wrote  home  of  wounds  and  praise 

He  bared  his  aged  breast,  and  curiously 

Eyed  bayonet  scars  from  half  forgotten  fields, 

Then  pinned  the  letter  next  his  heart,  and  went 

Among  his  calves  through  budding  apple-trees. 

So  years  with  silent  heart  and  seeing  eye 
He  walked  with  beauty  old  but  ever  new ; 
Then  died,  and  dying  called  a  friend  and  said : 
"Now  sell  the  farm;  'twas  happy  ground  for  me. 
But  never  will  be  for  him  who's  flown  the  nest. 
Send  him  the  money,  send  my  blessing  too; 
Say  I  died  proud  of  such  a  son."    He  kissed 
The  letter  from  his  boy  and  fell  asleep. 


[35] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

That  blessing  never  reached  the  son.     He  fell 

In  savage  wars  on  alien  islands,  lay 

Dying  of  fever,  want,  and  wounds  for  days. 

One  burning  midnight  suddenly  he  rose. 

The  reeling  phantom  of  his  manhood,  stood 

Before  his  father's  portrait,  blade  in  hand; 

And  then,  saluting  like  a  soldier,  said: 

"I've  come  to  say  I've  done  my  duty,  sir, 

The  way  you  told  me."     Sword  in  hand  he  died. 

Three  pictures  hang  along  the  parlor  wall. 
Come  here  and  see  them.    First,  beyond  the  door, 
The  dour  old  grandsire  prisoned  all  his  days. 
Who  burnt  his  heart  out  like  a  smoldering  fire. 
From  that  third  frame  the  bold  young  victor  leans 
Whom  once  a  nation  praised.     And  right  between- 
There,  lift  the  lamp  and  see  the  man  I  knew. 
In  eye  and  forehead,  face,  and  soul  behind 
So  like  yet  so  unlike  his  father  and  son. 


[36] 


THE  FIRST  HAY-STACK 

He  laid  its  round  foundation  first  in  fear, 
A  nervous,  trembling,  inexperienced  boy. 
Responsibilities  that  men  would  slight 
Weighed  heavy  on  him.    Two  days  he  trod  it  down. 
And  laid  the  sweet,  ripe  hill-grass  tier  on  tier. 
Two  nights  it  settled  under  moon  and  star. 
Returning  twice  through  twinkling,  dewy  fields 
He  found  it  round  and  firm,  a  grassy  tower. 

The  third  day  came,  the  hired  man  shook  his  head : 

"You'll  never  top  it  like  your  father  did; 

You'll  leave  a  shoulder,  rot  a  ton  of  hay." 

"A  ton!" — It  loomed  so  big  the  boy  turned  white. 

And  gripped  his  fork  and  climbed  and  took  his  place. 

Then,  always  narrowing  round  him  while  he  laid. 
And  rising  higher  and  higher  in  fragrant  wind. 
Seeming  to  rock  but  proving  firm,  and  level 
With  swallow  flying  low  and  neighboring  tree, 

[37] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

He  felt  his  handiwork  beneath  him  grow. 
The  hired  man  breathed ;  and  slow  the  forkfuls  came, 
Ruffled  with  wind.     He  trod  them  down,  and  high 
On  his  completed  work  he  stood  in  air. 


"Round  as  an  egg,"  he  heard  his  pitcher  call; 
"You  beat  the  old  man ;  here's  your  ladder,  slide." 
He  paused,  and  cast,  before  he  shd,  one  glance 
From    that    high    post    on    that    high-throned    hill- 
meadow. 
Valleys  he  saw,  and  rivers  flashing  light. 
And  other  hills  against  the  westering  sun, 
Green,  waving  corn-field,  yellowing  oat-field,  men 
Busy  as  he,  whose  lives  seemed  calling  out 
In  fellowship  to  him.     Four  miles  around 
The  town  could  see  his  work  and  know  it  good. 
His,  the  book-worm,  the  clumsy,  dreamy  boy. 
Who  yet  could  work,  had  too  his  skill  and  power. 

With  loving  hand  he  raked  and  combed  it  down. 
Still  redolent  from  the  meadow's  green  romance. 
His  treasure-heap  of  grass  and  flower  and  fern, 
Wild,  fragrant  herb  and  beauty-haunted  blade 

[38] 


The  First  Hay-Stack 

From  nine  broad  acres.    Then  he  rode  away, 
Eying  it  tenderly  from  the  rattling  cart. 

Through  milking  time  his  eyes  were  on  it  still, 
Where  high,  far  off,  clean  cut  against  the  sky. 
It  loomed  among  the  smoldering  clouds,  till  night 
Made  Venus  golden  right  above  its  peak. 

The  winter  came ;  and  many  a  day  he  drove 

His  creaking  ox-sled  through  the  crunching  snow, 

Loaded  with  logs,  along  that  wind-swept  hill. 

There  in  the  meadow,  where  round  cold  drifts  clung 

The  memories  of  the  far  off,  warm  July, 

Amid  the  bleak  and  lonely  landscape  rose 

The  form  he  made,  clean  cut  and  pointed  still. 

Hooded  and  cloaked  with  snow  and  blown  by  wind. 

Meeting  the  test  of  time.    A  human  form, 

A  friend  amid  the  desolate  waste,  it  seemed. 

In  March  he  drove  his  cattle  there,  unearthing 
With  every  wisp  glad  memories  of  the  summer. 
The  sweet,  ripe  June  grass,  clover  bud  and  vine. 
And  tall  dried  flower  that  half  the  long  forenoon 
Had  nodded  friendly  while  the  mower's  knives 

[39] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Kept  circling  nearer.     So  his  boyhood's  triumph 
Melted  and  faded  into  boyhood's  past. 

Yet  often  now  against  the  afterglow 

On  some  high  hill  he  sees  a  haystack  loom, 

With  peak  across  the  unearthly  twilight,  seen 

Against  the  afterglow  of  boyhood  dreams. 

Of  moods  that  set,  but  glimmer  and  dawn  again. 


[40] 


THE  FARM-BOY 

A  young  Yale  senior,  tramping  hills  that  summer, 

First  met  him  mowing,  where  a  hillside  meadow 

Looked  up  on  clouds  and  down  on  brooks  and  valleys. 

The  boy  had  stopped  to  let  his  horses  pant. 

And  oil  the  "buck-eye"*  under  a  cool,  broad  oak ; 

And  there  they  talked.    Yes,  both  were  fond  of  Burns. 

The  farm-boy  too  had  plowed  his  daisies  under. 

'And  Burns  has  helped  me  see  it  all,"  he  said, 

"The  beauty  of  meadows,  when  I'm  sick  of  men." 

The  senior  smiled,  kindly,  as  one  who  lifts 

A  lower  to  his  level,  "That's  not  Burns. 

The  Jolly  Beggars,  there's  your  Ayrshire  farmer; 

For  all  that's  best  in  literature,  we've  learned, 

Must   draw   from  men,   not  fields."     The    farm-boy 

thought ; 
Hard  life  had  made  him  test  such  glowing  terms. 
"Then,  saying  I  were  all  I'm  not,  a  Burns, 
You'd  have  me  write  of  folks  in  Horton  Hollow. 


♦The  Adriance  Buck-eye  mowing-machine. 

[41] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

And  not  their  brooks  and  hills  ?"  "I  would,  like  Burns." 
"What  holds  at  Yale  might  not  in  Horton  Hollow. 
Take  old  Jim  Andrews  there,  whose  hay  I'm  cutting, 
He's  kind  and  honest,  but  he  has  hypochondria. 
He'll  make  the  talk  at  work  or  dinner  take 
Such  dismal  ruts  we  thank  the  Lord  for  silence. 
He'd  cause  no  love-songs.    Hortons  all  have  brains. 
But  now  they've  mostly  left.     'Lije  Horton  drinks, 
Not  like  your  jolly  beggars,  but  all  alone 
Among  his  cider  casks  on  winter  nights. 
And  Jane  and  Helen  Horton  live  alone, 
Each  one  old  woman  in  a  big  rambhng  house, 
Good  women,  so  my  mother  said,  but  where 
Would  Burns  find  Highland  Mary?    Andrew  Weld 
Was  crushed  in  falling  from  an  apple-tree 
At  twenty,  when  he  planned  to  go  to  college. 
That  left  him  sick  nine  years  and  wrecked  for  life. 
Poor,  working  when  he  wasn't  fit,  and  brooding. 
A  fine  man  once,  but  now  he's  like  a  funeral. 
And  further  north  it  all  is  Poles  and  Jews, 
Who're  just  machines  to  work  and  eat  and  save. 
That's  life  in  Horton  Hollow,  human  life. 


[42] 


The  Farm-Boy 

"But  landscape !    look  and  see.     I  drive  out  here 
When  worrying  folks  have  put  my  nerves  on  edge, 
To  placid  cows  and  steers  and  great  calm  trees, 
And  calm  winds  blowing  over  tranquil  hills, 
And  it's  like  heaven.    I  lift  my  head  from  work, 
And  see  that  glorious  wealth  of  color  there 
In  leaves  and  grasses,  brooks  and  flowers  and  light. 
My  father's  dead;  but  often  in  haying  time 
Under  this  oak  I  think  it  seems  like  him, 
A  something  manly,  comforting,  and  strong, 
Better  than  folks  I  meet  with.    Then  at  night 
We  smell  these  fields  of  clover  damp  and  breezy; 
The  moonlight  makes  the  far  off  hills  seem  farther. 
And  climbing  stair  on  stair  among  the  stars. 
Then,  though  I  know  what  old  Will  Warren  is, 
I  see  his  house  up  there  on  Warren  Hill, 
With  moonlit  orchards  round  it,  turn  to  something 
Splendid,  divine,  not  just  Bill  Warren's  farm. 
I  used  to  think  when  little  once,  the  stars 
Dropped  down  at  night  among  his  apple-trees ; 
And  saw  him  mowing,  grass  one  side  his  bar. 
White  cloud  the  other.    Poetry  may  be  life ; 
But  life  has  corners  college  boys  don't  know. 


[43] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Nor  college  teachers."    Here  he  whipped  his  team; 
And  the  bright  knives  went  clicking  through  the  grass, 
That  flashed  and  twinkled,  daisy,  black-eyed  Susan, 
And  fox-tail  tall  and  green,  while  fresh  around  him 
Cool  winds  like  Homer's  wafted  hope  and  health. 


(44j 


THE 
NIGHT    BEFORE    THE    AUTO-DA-FE 

Beneath  the  never  changing  night,  whose  reign 
On  altering  earth  brings  ancient  midnights  near, 
On  shadowy  boards  where  lamps  but  light  the  brain, 
We  stage  the  play  that  history  wrote  in  fear. 
In  ghostly  orchestra  the  winds  awake 
Wild  notes  that  fraught  with  world-old  wailing  come; 
On  heart  and  ear  soul-haunting  echoes  break, 
Washed  up  by  time  from  lips  for  ages  dumb. 
Here  darkened  minds  debate  in  terror  and  pain 
What  way  through  gloom  the  blessed  Pharos  Ues, 
Their  sum  of  hope, — eternal  loss  or  gain. 
And  still  as  greatness,  grief,  and  folly  rise. 
With  wasted  love,  love's  wisdom  voiced  in  vain, 
World-old  experience  down  the  wind  repHes. 


[45] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 


Here  shall  it  seem  as  if  two  lovers  meet  under  the 
stars  in  the  place  of  the  next  day's  execution.  The 
woman  speaketh. 

Oh  love,  we  chose  an  evil  tryst,     I  feel 

From  sight  and  sound  and  hush  of  awe  in  air 

Day's  horror  haunt  the  waiting  night.     Who  knows, — 

Remembering  ghostly  tales  of  nurse  and  nun, — 

But  fiends,  allowed  by  God,  wait  here,  to  seize 

The  wicked  souls  of  those  who  burn  to-morrow? 

A  cloud  drove  past  the  moon  and  holy  stars ; 

And   the   night   wind,   that   blew    from   none   knows 

where, 
Like  spirit  fingers  plucked  my  veil  behind. 
Then  bells  among  the  great  cathedral  towers 
Rang  heavy  and  hollow,  as  denouncing  me, 
Who  fled  a  father's  house  and  will,  they  clanged. 
For  love  that  may  be  sin.    Through  other  scenes 
On  this  dear  arm  I  thought  to  pass  as  bride. 
My  merry  maids  are  stakes  in  ominous  file; 
My  wedding  favors  fagots. 

[46] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

The  man  speaketh. 

Hush !  those  bells 
But  rang  in  love's  delightful  year,  or  sounded 
Old  Pedro's  doom,  who,  foiled  in  all  his  hate, 
Burns  here  at  dawn;  whose  forfeit  wealth  turns  ours, 
Making  love  possible.    Not  fiends  but  lovers 
Grip  timid  wives  who  wake  to  joy  to-morrow. 
When  on  our  marriage  pillows  morning  laughs. 
Look,  sweet.     The  moon  but  dons  her  filmy  cloud 
As  brides  their  veil,  and  through  it  smiles  at  you. 
And  the  night  wind,  made  damp  from  stream  and  pool, 
Is  blowing  kisses,  kisses  everywhere. 
The  priest  is  waiting;  love  is  calling.     Come. 

Here  speaketh  the  night  wind. 

I  am  the  wind  of  night,  blown  hither  from  far  Cathay, 
Where  I  cooled  two  leopard  cubs  as  they  rolled  in  the 

grass  at  play. 
They  were  warm  from  their  banquet  done,  and  they 

frisked  in  the  moonlight  clear, 
And  found  love  in  their  mother's  purr,  that  the  buffalo 

quake  to  hear. 

[47] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

And  no  thought  had  they  of  the  life  that  had  perished 

to  make  them  glad. 
I  blew  by  the  leopard  cub,  and  I  blow  by  the  human  lad. 


II 

Here  shall  the  voice  of  a  woman  he  heard  praying 
before  a  shrine. 

Pure  mother  Mary,  gentle,  good  Saint  Anne, 
Ye  two  who  saved  a  world  by  motherhood, 
Hear  me,  a  mother.     Kin,  confessor,  friend. 
All  cry  I  sin  in  asking  aid  of  you, 
When  death  is  near  and  other  aid  is  none. 
For  foe  of  yours.    As  if  my  only  boy. 
Whom  like  the  Saviour  once  my  bosom  bore. 
Who  loved  the  poor  and  kept  my  age  from  want, 
Were  foe  to  you !    Some  frightful  error  here 
Needs  you  to  light  it,  star  of  Bethlehem. 
Oh,  if  I  sin  the  mother  love  that  sins 
And  shepherd-like  pursues  the  wandering  lamb 
Might  be  forgiven.    Still  he  is  my  son, 
However  those  wicked  books,  that  demon  pens, 
I  know,  had  traced,  deluded  him  with  lies. 

[48] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

I  found  a  child  once  wandering  in  a  wood, 
Misled  by  owlet's  hoot  and  will-o'-the-wisp, 
And  pitying  led  it  home.    My  boy  is  lost 
Where  none  on  earth  can  lead  him  back;  but  you, 
Sweet  Mother  Mary,  good  Saint  Anne,  oh  you 
Can  save  him  yet  and  make  him  know  the  truth. 
The  hours  of  night  rush  by;  and  dawn  will  bring 
The  flaming  stake,  the  jeering  crowd,  and  frown 
Of  stony  monks,  who  say  that  hour  of  pain 
Is  only  porch  to  hell's  unending  fire. 
All  power  is  yours  with  God  and  Christ ;  all  love. 
Men  say,  is  yours,  the  undying  mother  love. 
My  heart  is  breaking ;  hear  me ;  save  my  son ! 

The  night  mind  maketh  her  answer. 

I  am  the  night,  my  daughter ;  round  a  million  homes  I 

blow. 
My   every   breath   in  the   gloom   is   the   groan   of   a 

mother's  throe. 
Travail  that  earth  may  endure,  may  live  to  be  nobler 

than  now. 
And  the  life  that  you  suffered  to  give  us  is  burned  like 

the  oak's  dead  bough. 

[49] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Oh  creed  that  enthroned  the  mother  where  the  tears 

of  the  ages  ran, 
Is  this  all  that  you  learned  from  Mary  and  the  bones 

of  good  Saint  Anne? 


Ill 

Here  shall  a  sick  man  he  heard  as  if  at  an  open  window. 

More  air,  more  air !    Can  night's  unplumbed  abyss. 

That  cools  wide  land  and  wild,  untraveled  sea. 

Not  cool  one  fevered  head?  not  even  now. 

When  hours  decide  the  hope  of  all  these  years? 

A  bishop's  mitre  gleams  amid  the  gloom 

Beyond  me  and  beyond  me  and  beyond, 

Sliding  along  the  moonlight,  tempting  me, 

Eluding  still  the  feeble  hand  that  fails 

When  health  might  grasp  it.    Oh  remain,  remain ! 

Am  I  not  learned,  encouraged,  well  approved 

In  wisdom,  toil,  and  fervor  for  the  faith? 

Have  I  not  given  the  church  the  lamb  I  loved, 

And  watched  in  Heaven's  fold,  who  stayed  not  there, 

And  burns  to-morrow,  damp  with  tears  of  blood 

From  me,  like  Isaac  offered  up  of  old? 

[so] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

What  broke  my  heart  should  earn  a  mitre,  yea! 

Yet  on  the  ascending  stair  I  feel  it  fail. 

Reeling  and  fainting  at  the  goal,  I  hear 

The  racing  feet  of  rivals  pass  me  by. 

Nay,  courage,  heart!  this  weakness  cannot  last. 

New  life  will  stir  with  dawn,  and  all  be  well 

When  I  am  strong,  when  I  again  am  strong! 

Yet  how  this  fever,  beating  reason  down. 
And  calm-eyed  conscience,  fills  my  brain  with  mad, 
Abhorred  illusions  guilt  alone  should  view. 
That  seems  Hernando,  yet  his  cell's  far  off, 
And  he  alive,  and  not  till  one  night  more 
That  ghost  can  come.     But  stood  its  image  here, 
Bowed  on  the  cross  whose  faith  those  lips  denied. 
Could  I  not  face  it,  laughing  terrors  down? 
Thou  canst  not  call  me  traitor,  thou  who  didst 
With  blasphemy  betray  the  faith  of  ages. 
Had  I  concealed  the  pestilent  breath  in  thee, 
And  made  thy  friendship  more  than  Christ  to  me, 
Lied  not  to  thee,  and  made  a  living  lie 
Of  every  vow  I  took  as  priest, —  oh  then 
Well  might  I  fear.     God's  flaming  ministers 
Might  walk  my  chamber  then  at  night,  and  call 

[SI] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

My  harrowed  soul  to  answer.     Get  thee  gone, 
Charred  phantom  form,  reproachful,  lingering  still. 
Thou'rt  but  delirium.     All  will  yet  be  well 
When  I  am  strong,  when  I  again  am  strong! 

Few  days  I  lose,  oh  surely  only  few. 
And  youth  is  mine,  and  many  a  friend  in  power. 
The  climb  begun,  these  feet  may  clamber  far. 
The  cardinal's  hat  might  crown  the  mitre  soon. 
And  then, — who  knows?  for  men  as  low  as  I 
Have  found  their  seat  in  Peter's  chair,  and  posed 
As  God's  high  regent  over  lands  and  kings. 
This  hand  that  now  an  ague  shakes  might  live 
To  shake  an  emperor  from  his  throne ;  might  live — 
And  might  not  live — .    Oh  God  All  Merciful, 
Forgive  my  sins  and  call  me  not  away. 
Let  me  be  strong!  let  me  again  be  strong! 

The  night  wind  answereth  him. 

By  your  window  flutters  the  robe  of  the  oldest  of 

priests  alive; 
I  call  my  sons  to  confession,  and  cold  are  the  hands 

that  shrive. 

[52] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

Each  air  that  I  wake  is  an  echo  of  a  bell  that  some- 
where tolls; 

My  cowl,  like  the  Chase  of  Odin,  is  a  cloud  that  is 
thronged  with  souls. 

Out  of  the  night  I  come,  from  the  dying  on  land  and 
sea; 

And  into  the  night  I  go,  and  the  priest  goes  forth  with 
me. 


IV 


Here  shall  come  a  voice  as  of  a  great  prelate  musing 
alone  in  a  cathedral. 

Through  the  wide  minster,  faint  and  far  between. 

The  lamps  gleam  out  like  truth  in  error's  gloom. 

At  column's  flank  or  foot  of  saint.     All  else 

Is  darkness,  with  the  hollow  dome  above 

Reechoing  silence  to  the  silent  nave. 

Now  in  that  hush  and  dark  as  hallowed  priest 

And  kingly  minister,  reflect,  my  heart. 

Before  the  living  die,  before  we  make 

The  hour's  expedient  lasting  law  in  Spain. 

Four  hundred  years,  propped  on  the  corner-stone 

[53] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

That  bears  this  massy  pile,  has  God  made  here 
A  home  for  men,  asylum  from  their  sin. 
Above  my  head,  awful  and  grand  and  pale. 
Scarce  half  revealed  in  the  dim  shadow,  leans 
The  wounded  majesty  of  Christ.     To  Him 
Must  I  give  answer  how  I  guard  the  Faith 
By  which  His  agony  redeems  a  world. 
Out  there  through  wide,  immeasurable  night, 
By  town  and  soaring  peak  and  seas  that  wash 
Their  human  freight  far  off  on  unknown  shores. 
The  hearts  breathe  placidly  that  soon  must  know 
Infinite  bliss  or  infinite  despair. 
Ye  darkened  millions,  pillowed  soft  in  sleep. 
Whose  dread  salvation  weighs  to-night  on  me. 
You  must  I  answer  how  I  shepherd  you. 

A  mother's  holy  love  with  fearful  power 
In  pleading  anguish  fills  a  judge's  ear; 
My  own  yet  rings  with  it.    But  what  of  her. 
That  other  wife,  whose  child  in  coming  years 
Through  error's  taint  may  die  eternally 
If  error's  priest  go  free?    And  what  of  them. 
The  unborn  millions,  who  in  endless  pain 
May  mourn  too  late  forsaken  faith,  and  cry : 

[54] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

"Most  happy  might  we  be  in  heaven  now, 
Hadst  thou,  Ximenes,  done  thy  duty  then." 

Lo,  God,  in  night,  the  night  of  human  mind, 

I  stand ;  and  round  my  feet  the  nations  throng. 

No  sun  of  perfect  knowledge  ever — no. 

Not  while  the  world  grew  gray  inquiring-^lit. 

Or  ever  could,  that  darkened  void,  wherein 

On  groping  souls  deluding  planets  gleam 

Age  after  age ;  no  hope,  no  light,  no  truth. 

I  hold  in  gloom  the  hand  of  one  before. 

Who  holds  in  gloom  an  older  hand  than  his ; 

And  so  in  living  chain  we  reach  to  One 

Who  leads  through  night  to  certain  day.    Though  near 

Unseen  the  lion  howl,  in  token  dread 

The  dim  gier-eagle  drop  the  straggler's  bone. 

To  quicksands  near  that  gulp  and  give  not  back 

Low  siren  voices  call  the  fool,  yet  safe 

Behind  that  far  off  Guide  our  column  goes. 

Where  none  may  hope  but  that  unbroken  file. 

That,  parted  once,  would  doom  the  race.     Live  on 

Through  Peter,  Linus,  pope  and  me,  thou  chain! 

Yet  quoth  an  upstart  mob :   "Oh  world  astray, 

[55] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Let  go  of  hands,  and  hurrying  on  alone 

Find  what  the  fathers  found" ;  or  ''Christ  was  man" ; 

Or  "Walk  with  me  by  reason's  polar  star"; 

And  wandering  on  the  wild,  their  guiding  gleam 

Enswathed  in  cloud,  they  perish  each  and  all, 

Whole  lands  in  endless  doom.    No  more  of  that! 

Here  in  the  midst  of  this  great  woeful  world, 

Under  the  image  of  that  awful  hour 

On  Calvary,  the  flames  beneath  my  feet. 

And  Heaven  above  me,  and  eternity 

Peering  disdainful  on  our  nook  of  time. 

In  loving  hands  I  lift  the  crook  of  fear 

To  guide  my  sheep  to  safety.    Forth  I  go 

With  will  of  adamant  and  heart  at  peace. 

The  night  wind  sobbeth  by  the  cathedral  doors  as  the 
sound  of  footsteps  passeth  through  them. 

I  am  the  wind  of  night  through  eternity  walking  the 

sphere, 
Forever  telling  a  truth  too  simple  for  man  to  hear. 
Wailing  for  needless  battles  and  sobbing  for  needless 

crime, 
Damp  with  the  tears  of  ages  and  sad  with  the  wrongs 

of  time, 

[56] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

Still  breathing  the  same  mild  lesson  that  lived  in  the 

Nazarene, 
Haunted  and  broken-hearted  by  the  thousand  years 

between. 

In  my  bosom  I  bear  traditions  that  are  old  as  the 

earth  and  sky; 
I  have  seen  how  truth  grew  error  in  the  lapse  of  the 

years  gone  by, 
Round  many   a   Calvary   mountain   where   the   good 

were  crowned  with  thorn, 
Where  the  brave  on  the  cross  were  lifted  and  the  veils 

of  the  temple  torn. 
Would  ye  listen  and  hear  my  message,  your  hatred 

would  soon  grow  love; 
But  my  voice  is  the  voice  of  the  wind,  and  ye  hear  but 

the  sound  thereof. 

V 

Now  Cometh  a  voice  reechoing  as  from  the  walls  of  a 

dungeon. 
Be  bold,  my  will;  one  mighty  wrench,  and  then, 
Lo,  heaven  before  thee  and  all  pain  behind. 
Would  man  not  gladly  hold  his  hand  in  fire, 

[57] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

While  counting  one,  for  life's  brief  glory  and  joy? 
Yet  for  each  moment  this  poor  flesh  can  feel, 
What  never  entered  heart  of  man  is  mine. 
Oh  trembling  soul,  nail  there  thy  gaze,  hold  well 
That  gleaming  hope,  and  it  shall  make  thee  firm. 
Think  when  the  square  grows  black  before  thine  eyes. 
And  thy  racked  nerves  divide  from  pain  forever, 
What  light  shall  cleave  the  darkness,  when  thy  hands 
Are  gripped  by  angels,  and  thy  ears  are  full 
Of  welcoming  words  from  martyrs  of  old  days, 
Peter  and  Linus,  and  all  those  whose  heirs 
Polluted  that  I  died  to  purify. 
How  will  thy  senses  reel  with  that  great  joy! 

Then  through  the  echoing  heaven  by  choir  on  choir 
Shall  we  be  borne,  and  from  the  Almighty's  throne 
Look  down  past  filmy  cloud  and  golden  star 
On  life  and  death,  and  God's  love  leavening  all. 
There  at  our  feet,  now  beautiful  in  sun, 
'Twixt  flaming  pillars  of  the  dusk  and  dawn. 
Our  world  shall  lie,  and  muflled  now  in  shade 
And  moonlight.     From  the  groves  of  Araby 
Our  eyes  shall  range  to  the  wild  Northern  Sea, 
Past  mountains  cowled  with  everlasting  snow, 

[58] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

Vineyards,  cathedrals,  lakes  wherein  the  sun 

Flames,  a  fire-opal.     Voices  we  shall  hear 

Where  the  old  note  of  anguish  dies  away, 

And  men  are  glad  and  faith  is  pure.     Then  we 

Shall  look  into  each  other's  deathless  eyes, 

And  whisper,  "From  our  death  their  blessings  grew." 

In  churches'  twilight  choirs  we'll  walk  with  men. 

Breathing  pure  fancies  through  a  mind  at  prayer. 

That  wonders  why  they  came.     Down  minster  aisles 

May  we  like  cooling  winds  with  airy  hand 

Usher  the  living  into  truths  of  love. 

Then  children,  knowing  not  what  dead  are  near. 

May  read  our  names  on  page  or  pane,  and  ask, 

"Who  then  were  these?"  while  reverend  priests  reply, 

"Martyrs  for  you  and  this  pure  faith  of  ours." 

The  sands  run  on ;  the  faster  that  they  run 

The  nearer  heaven  am  I.     Yea,  in  the  dusk 

Methinks  I  hear  the  beat  of  angel  plumes. 

And  voices  crying,  "Courage,  what  is  time 

Beneath  eternity?"     Above  me  sound 

The  keys  of  heaven;  the  sweet,  glad  notes  blow  down; 

And  through  the  dark  that  voice  that  from  the  dark 

[59] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Called  up  creation,  cries,  "Let  there  be  light." 
Now  wavering  dreamer  with  the  fire  before  thee, 
Be  brave ;  thou  diest  beneath  the  Almighty's  eye. 

The  night  wind  museth  with  itself. 

Out  of  the  night  I  come,  and  into  the  night  I  go. 

I  have  seen  so  many  a  heart  put  forth  through  the 

midnight  so. 
They  were  brave  in  the  strength  of  a  dream;  have 

they  found  it  or  waked  to  rue  ? 
Or  can  dream  so  bravely  dreamed  through  courage 

grow  something  true? 
I  hope;  but  I  blow  round  earth,  God's  footstool  and 

mortal's  grave, 
And  no  voice  from  the  throne  tells  me  of  the  millions 

that  dreams  made  brave. 

VI 

Now  reechoeth  a  voice  as  from  another  dungeon. 

Midnight  is  past ;  day  comes,  and  earth  has  end. 
I  thought  I  faintly  heard  your  songs  and  prayers, 
Doomed  fellow  souls,  whom  faith  assures  of  God 

[60] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

And  heaven  at  sunset.     No  such  hopes  are  mine. 

Hollow,  unchanged,  my  oracles  reply 

In  terror's  hour  as  leisure's,  No  man  knows. 

Cling  on  in  hope,  poor  hearts ;  but  mine  must  wear 

Less  visionary  arms,  in  sterner  mail 

Front  certain  pang  and  all  uncertain  doom. 

Yet  even  in  flame  almost  a  man  might  smile 

To  think  my  foes,  who  laughed  me  down,  send  me 

To  win  from  death  the  proofs  confuting  theirs. 

Shall  I  not  laugh  in  his  dim  realm  when  they. 

With  long,  chop  fallen  face  and  rueful,  hear 

That  grim  logician  answer  even  as  I? 

And  something  of  the  bold  discoverer's  thrill 

I  feel,  and  curious  even  in  dread  enquire : 

What  shores  draw  nigh?  in  what  strange  hostelrie. 

My  soul,  sojourn'st  thou  one  brief  night  from  now? 

But  fearful  is  the  price  I  pay,  who  lose 
This  living,  warm,  unquestionable  life. 
To  learn  what  random  prize  the  blind  abyss 
May  give  the  brave.    The  irrevocable  gate 
Being  passed,  I  might  lapse  in  eternal  naught ; 
And  the  glad  hours  that  were  to  fill  with  friends, 
Faces  of  children,  laugh  of  love,  and  glow 

[6i] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Of  sun  and  wine  and  leisure  in  the  veins, 

And  hounds  of  thought  glad-eyed  in  trailing  truth, 

And  ever  new  delight  to  see  the  sun 

Paint  cliff  and  castle  tower  with  morning  fire, — 

All  these  might  prove  but  dead  oblivion's  price. 

Or  life  continuing  void  of  thought,  as  herb 

And  plant  endure,  in  nature  reabsorbed. 

This  whilom  eager  brain  might  branch  and  bud 

Amid  the  woodland,  where  no  joy  or  grief 

Could  stir  me  more,  and  from  some  gray  old  oak 

Rustle  above  my  children's  children's  head. 

Unknown  to  them  or  me.     And  conscious  life 

Instead  of  love  might  bare  the  fangs  of  fear. 

For  down  some  chaos  of  a  shattered  brain 

With  ghosts  in  endless  ages  might  I  walk. 

Once  loosed  from  all  the  laws  that  guard  us  here. 

Why  spread  my  sails  then  through  that  timeless  night 

When  safe  and  soft  my  days  might  laugh  on  shore? 

Why  not  recant?     Because  within  my  soul 

Is  God,  if  none  be  in  the  gloom  without. 

Within  my  bosom  burns  that  lamp  of  thought 

By  spirit  fathers  lit  and  left  to  me. 

Cleaving  our  night  to  truths  afar,  with  pure 

[62] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

And  calm  aroma  lulling  minds  of  men 

To  moods  of  nobler  life.     Burn  still,  thou  lamp. 

Be  it  pride  or  duty,  love  or  stubborn  will, 

I  quench  thee  not  with  lies  but  hand  thee  on. 

That  worlds  made  free  may  think  and  learn  and  grow. 

Then  courage,  heart,  thou  playest  a  noble  role. 
And  after  all  that  dear,  consoling  dream 
Of  heaven,  unproved,  is  undisproved  as  well. 
But  pin  not  there  thy  hopes ;  and  sure  thou  art 
Never  in  flesh  to  see  the  coming  men 
For  whom  thou  diest,  nor  will  they  know  thee. 
Nor  ever  hear  thy  name,  nor  mark  thy  grave. 
So  much  for  earth.     Beyond  I  only  know 
Through  darkling  seas  of  doubt,  from  horror's  pier, 
Unpiloted,  uncheered,  with  chance  I  go; 
But  never,  come  what  will,  can  be  condemned 
To  loathe  myself  and  smirk  in  cringing  fear. 
'Tis  well.    At  sunset  I  shall  be  with  God, 
Or  else  the  one  true  godlike  thing  that  was. 

The  night  wind  whispereth  to  him. 

I  am  the  night  wind  blowing  from  a  western  ocean 
now, 

[63] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Where  a  thousand  leagues  the  waves  are  uncloven  by 
human  prow. 

By  the  ocean  currents  borne  where  the  whale  from  the 
kraken  flies, 

Old  wrecks  float  half  way  down  that  no  longer  can 
sink  nor  rise. 

Through  the  vast,  dim  gulfs  below  look  the  white- 
ribbed  crew  a-stare. 

Where  the  living  have  never  been  I  have  blown,  and 
the  dead  are  there. 

But  the  stars  look  down  above  and  they  quiver  as  if 
alive ; 

And  the  ocean  winds  are  a  voice,  and  the  ocean  cur- 
rents drive; 

And  the  coral  temples  grow  on  the  rock  that  no 
storm  overthrew; 

And  the  cliffs  of  the  deep  give  rest  to  the  wing  of  the 
wild  seamew. 

Where  the  living  have  never  been  and  the  lips  of  the 
dead  are  sealed, 

Dimly  I  glimpsed  the  truth  of  a  God  and  His  love 
revealed. 


[64] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 


VII 


From  one  side  of  a  moonlit  street  the  children  of  a 
happy  family  are  heard  singing. 

Under  Heaven's  starry  towers 
Gently  slumber  lamb  and  kine. 
Gently  close  these  eyes  of  ours, 
Lulled  beneath  the  love  divine. 
Draw  the  curtain,  quench  the  flame ; 
Angels  watch  till  morning  light. 
Breathe  one  prayer  in  Mary's  name. 
Then  we  sleep.     To  all  good  night. 

Here    the    wind    shall    blow    pleasant    old    memories 
down  the  street,  but  shall  wail  in  passing  the  square. 

VIII 

It   seemeth    that   one    miiseth   alone    among   rustling 
shrubbery. 

And  here  it  is,  that  lay  so  long  in  ground, 
Thy  marble  bust,  thou  great  Athenian  soul. 
Thy  words  are  on  my  vellum  page;  and  thou — 

[6s] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Art  thou  not  near,  whatever  lives  of  thee, 
Where  newly  found  thy  lineaments  and  lore 
Survive  the  years,  grand  polar  star.     Oh  yet, 
Plato,  thou'rt  nigh.     Come,  trim  the  lamp  with  me. 
And  talk  of  wisdom  hidden  long  from  fools. 
What  thought  moved  once  the  brow  men  modeled 

here? 
Ah,  pour  it  forth  till  charmed  by  thee  I  feel 
Oblivion  wrap  my  fallen  age,  and  them, 
The  priestly  crowd,  to  whom  I  vowed  but  now 
Implicit  faith  in  what  I  know  a  lie. 
Blaspheming  nature.     Let  me  lave  my  soul 
Free  from  the  canting  slime  I  wallowed  in. 
With  thee  in  pitying,  calm  disdain  behold 
Man's  world,  this  great  kaleidoscope  of  creeds, 
Changing  and  childlike,  laughable,  terrible. 

Should  I  have  lied  ?     One  long  revered  by  me, 
One  filled  with  learning,  warm  with  love  of  men. 
Lied  not — and  burns  to-morrow.     Mourned  of  none, 
Among  the  madmen,  doomed  and  those  who  doom, 
A  lonely  martyr  he  for  truth  unchained 
And  godlike  doubt.     Had  I  believed  as  he 
My  death  would  raise  the  race,  I  might  have  died. 

[66] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

But  age  on  age  the  wise  and  good  from  cross 
And  flame  and  gallows-tree  have  cried;  and  still 
The  hoary  fiend  whom  they  an  hour  dethroned 
But  donned  the  new  deliverer's  robes  and  reigned. 
And  so  I  lied  and  live,  and  talk  with  you. 

How  beautiful  is  the  night  that  welcomes  you 

From  that  long  sojourn  in  time's  wreckage.     Fair 

Gleam  down  the  stars  as  on  Pentelicus, 

When  you  by  their  soft  torches  did  derive 

The  mighty  lesson  years  have  kept  so  ill. 

You  seem  in  age ;  those  cheeks  are  guttered  out 

By  burning  thought  as  tapers  by  their  flame; 

Yet  calm  serenity  is  on  that  brow, 

As  if  your  musings  while  you  still  were  man 

Had  clasped  eternity  in  single  hours. 

Your  race  did  build  the  Parthenon,  and  there 

Held  dual  worship,  where  the  crowd  revered 

Athena,  and  your  peers  the  beautiful. 

So  I  in  dim  cathedrals  built  by  me, 

Behind  mock  saints  to  whom  my  mockery  prays, 

Enthrone  your  ancient  vision  and  revere. 

Dread,  dark  Hereafter,  word  whose  witching  sound 
On  siren  isles  has  drawn  deluded  lands, 

[67] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Wait  unexpounded  through  our  human  night 
And  nation's  nonage;  vex  the  world  no  more. 
Enough  for  me  that  thus,  transcending  time, 
I  Uve  at  will  in  Plato's  day,  and  view 
From  peaks  of  thought  far  off  millennial  suns. 
He  who  imagines  half  has  conquered  death. 
Thou  didst  converse  with  me  in  Academe, 
Thou  graven  face;  and  thou  and  I  this  hour 
Feel  dimly  thoughts  that  kindred  minds  unborn 
May  shape  around  our  chiseled  brows.     All  hail. 
Undying  vision,  more  than  mortal  mood. 
That  sound  among  the  rustling  leaves  may  be 
The  step  of  Death;  but  let  it.     Thou  and  I — 
Have  we  not  fathomed  eternity  to-night? 

The  night  wind  moaneth  in  the  shrubbery. 

I  have  blown  by  the  groves  of  Ganges,  I  have  blown 
by  the  mouths  of  Nile, 

By  Balbec  and  great  Palmyra  where  the  gods  were 
throned  erewhile; 

But  their  names  were  unknown  and  their  works  over- 
thrown, and  their  priesthood  dead ; 

And  the  grape  that  grew  wild  on  their  ruin  fed  those 
whom  they  never  fed. 
[68] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

And  the  same  old  joy  of  loving,  and  the  same  old 

hunger  cry, 
And  the  waste  of  life's  rich  meaning  lived  on  though 

the  gods  might  die. 

By  the  shores  of  eternity  flying  I  have  asked  for  what 

none  would  tell. 
From  the  bounds  of  the  infinite  blown  I  but  whisper 

a  finite  spell, 
The  spell  of  a  world  made  happy,  of  a  heart  and  a 

mind  made  free, 
I  have  sung  in  men's  ears  for  ages  as  I  danced  with 

the  surging  sea. 
But  the  heroes  who  heard  it  are  dead,  and  the  sages 

w^ho  heard  it  are  dumb; 
And  dark  are  the  years  behind  me,  and  dim  are  the 

years  to  come. 

IX 

Here  speaketh  a  voice  as  of  a  great  queen  at  her 

chamber  window. 
All  day  my  woman's  limbs  wore  armor,  love. 
All  day  my  woman's  tender  soul  has  worn 
The  monarch's  iron  mood,  and  longed  for  night, 

[69] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Whose  dewy  hands  unarm  the  weary  will. 
Only  a  clinging  wife  is  she  whose  frown 
Defended  realms  at  noon;  and  thou,  my  prince, 
Be  lover,  man,  and  husband  now  for  me. 
The  stars  that  chronicle  the  reigns  of  kings 
Are  gazing  down,  and  grave  with  burning  pens 
Our  deeds  among  their  keen,  enduring  orbs. 
They  write  and  tell  us  nothing ;  praise  or  blame 
Is  there  forevermore  in  angel  eyes; 
Yet  we  cannot  decipher  it,  nor  know 
If  praise  or  blame  be  there,  that  coming  time 
May  read  on  earth,  and  God  in  heaven  now. 

Whence  fell  this  dark  and  dreadful  melancholy 

On  me,  who  rode  with  men  against  the  Moor? 

Have  I  done  evil?     All  our  realms  rejoice. 

Our  great  united  empire,  one  in  faith. 

"Who  owns  the  region  owns  religion  there"; 

Or  schism  and  civil  war  would  rend  it.     You, 

Glad  Spain,  win  peace  on  earth,  in  heaven  salvation. 

Perfumes  of  blossom  rich  on  vine  and  tree. 

Or  flower  in  cloister  garden,  bear  the  breath 

Of  grateful  people  down  the  fragrant  night. 

Only  among  the  trill  of  happy  tones, 

[70] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

And  gliding  wave  and  lover's  glad  guitar, 
The  nightingale  keeps  singing  mournfully. 
Would  he  vi^ere  still ;  our  dread  imperial  power, 
Launching  the  force  whose  workings  none  may  weigh, 
Can  silence  not  that  low,  insistent  tone. 

The  blessed  night  is  calm  and  full  of  faith. 
The  stars  are  altar-lamps;  the  trees  bow  down, 
And  tell  their  rosaries  in  drops  of  dew. 
As  mothers  eye  their  sleeping  babes,  to-night 
I  watch  the  land  I  love,  and  fold  its  arms 
Around  the  cross  whereon  the  Saviour  died; 
Even  I,  who  made  my  land's  religion  pure. 
And  thinking  thus  I  was  most  glad,  until. 
Like  memories  of  a  friend's  forgotten  prayer. 
That  says  it  was  but  tells  not  what  it  was, 
I  heard  the  nightingale  as  now  it  mourns. 

To-morrow  law  must  lay  its  iron  hand 

Where  love  has  failed.     Oh  Christ  who  cleansed  the 

temple. 
Bring  comfort  to  thy  child,  that  loved  too  well 
Thy  enemies,  and  saddening  signed  their  doom. 
Throw  guardian  arms  around  me,  husband,  king, 

[71] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

Drive  off  the  dreary  mood  that  music  woke. 

But  now  I  thought  a  foot  was  on  the  grave 

Of  that  sweet  fame  and  love  from  coming  years 

That  should  be  mine.     I  know  'twas  but  a  dream. 

Embrace  me,  praise  me,  charm  that  mood  away. 

Among  the  stellar  fires  Orion  treads 

As  he  shall  tread  for  seons  yet,  and  hear 

The  ages  judge  the  irrevocable  past. 

Why  should  I  shudder?  why  be  haunted  now 

With  prayer  for  ill-timed  clemency  refused? 

I  should  be  glad  as  mother,  wife,  and  queen. 

And  Christian  lady.     Only  sad,  so  sad. 

With  grief  so  old  yet  never  understood. 

Below  my  window  sang  the  nightingale. 

The   wind    blows    to    the   listener    the    song    of    the 
nightingale. 

I  sang  to  the  beautiful  rose,  and  its  petals  grew  wide 

to  hear; 
But  it  learned  not  the   song  that  I   sang,  though   it 

thrilled  that  my  music  was  near. 
I  sang  to  the  heart  of  a  queen,  and  it  opened  to  let 

me  in. 

[72] 


The  Night  Before  the  Auto-da-fe 

I  sang  at  the  door  of  her  thought,  and  it  barred  me 

out  as  a  sin. 
So  I  sing  in  the  night  of  the  ages  alone  till  the  dawn 

return ; 
And  the  beautiful  women  weep,  but  my  meaning  they 

never  will  learn. 


Here  shall  come  a  sound  as  of  guards  before  prison 
gates,  and  words  as  of  monks  conversing- 

That  was  a  fearful  scene,  wild  Indian  form 

And  foreign  tree  and  quivering  wind-blown  fires. 

Our  brother  died  there  burned  by  heathen,  yea, 

By  those  to  whom  in  love  he  bore  the  truth. 

As  always  that  great  errand  ends  on  earth, 

A  holy  martyr.     Through  the  flames  he  saw 

Angels  descending,  and  the  white-robed  saints, 

Who  bore  an  aureole  for  a  kindred  brow. 

So  pass  to  joy  the  blessed  of  the  Lord. 

Hark,    peace.      From    those    condemned    unhallowed 

hymns 
I  hear,  and  prayer  that  never  Mary  willed. 

[73] 


Poems  of  New  England  and  Old  Spain 

For  them  already  yonder  angry  dawn 

Brings  wrath  divine  and  Holy  Church's  doom. 

Long  may  they  suffer  for  their  heresy. 

The  night  wind  speaketh  wearily. 

Out  of  the  night  I  come,  and  into  the  night  I  go, 
For   the   dusky   caravans   move,   and   the   mountains 

begin  to  glow. 
And  the  sun  is  so  far  from  man  he  will  laugh  as  he 

climbs  the  sky; 
And  man  is  so  far  from  man  he  will  laugh  while  his 

brethren  die. 
And  the  love-driven  hates  foam  on  to  the  goal  that 

none  yet  discerns. 
Into  the  bosom  of  night  the  child  of  the  night  returns. 


[74] 


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